


PART FOUR: Shadowdance

by the1crazycatlady



Series: Love of My Un-Death [4]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula: Entre l'amour et la mort
Genre: Control, Delusions, Drug Addiction, Drugs, F/M, Invasion of Privacy, Irony, M/M, Master/Slave, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Panic, Read at Your Own Risk, Souled Vampire(s), Trains, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vampire Slayer(s), Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:30:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6239389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1crazycatlady/pseuds/the1crazycatlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not realizing that she herself is coming to Wallachia, Dracula goes to London to find Mina. He forces Renfield to come with him because Johnathon Harker, concerned for his photographer's well-being, is calling on Van Helsing and some other people to get the addict back. As Dracula starts to get closer to Renfield, he begins to like him.</p><p>Bad things go down, so be wary.</p><p>(Part 4/7)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_May 4th, 2050_ **

Johnathon groaned and turned over onto his back. The light shining down on him was suddenly too bright and he winced, mumbling something he didn't catch and putting a hand on his forehead. Sighing quietly, he sat up.

“Renfield?” he asked. There was no response, so he tried again; still nothing.

Johnathon looked around. The small hotel room was the same as it had been when he drifted off – the closet was empty, the washbin was covered with an unidentifiable yellow grime, and there was a small shag carpet he'd lost a pen cap in over a polished wooden floor. He crawled out of bed, calling for Renfield and searching for his shoes.

Renfield wasn't responding.

Johnathon glanced down at his watch and couldn't believe his eyes – it was eight o'clock. But that couldn't be right, it had been something like nine when he'd drifted off. How could it-

He threw open the curtains and the sunshine blinded him. “Oh no,” he grumbled.

There was an oily piece of paper on the table in the kitchen. _Johnathon,_ it read. _Tried to wake you, but you were too out of it. Went ahead to Wallachia's castle to try and arrange a meeting for you and him later. Will take pictures._ Then there was Renfield's messy signature.

“Renfield,” Johnathon groaned, tossing the note into the garbage. “Renfield, Renfield, _Renfield.”_

Johnathon went over to the closed door separating his own room from Renfield's and barged right on in. He expected to find Renfield curled up under the blankets with the pillow over his head, but the bed hadn't been slept in and it didn't even seem like Renfield had unpacked much of anything.

Johnathon glanced around, as if Renfield would be hiding in a corner or something silly like that, but of course the other man wasn't there.

Something was wrong - Johnathon could sense it. Surely Renfield hadn't stayed the night at Wallachia's place...? Renfield was many things, but he wasn't stupid; he'd insist on being taken back to the hotel.

Johnathon rubbed at the base of his neck, sighing. Then he glanced over at the bedside table and did a double-take. There was a syringe lying partially hidden underneath a paper napkin. Picking it up, he saw the remnants of a clear liquid inside the glass container and drew in a breath.

Before he could lose the nerve, he unzipped one of Renfield's duffel bags. Inside were clothes and camera equipment. He zipped it back up and undid the front pocket of Renfield's backpack.

“What the hell?” Johnathon muttered. He reached inside and pulled out what he instantly recognized as a plastic bag of tampons – he'd seen Mina with them plenty of enough times.

He suddenly had the sense that he'd breached something very private and personal in Renfield's life, and that was something that he had told himself he would never do. He replaced the bag, quickly zipping it back up. But then he saw the syringe again and paused. He gulped and glanced over his shoulder.

Johnathon knew that it wasn't the right thing to do, but now he was concerned; he unzipped the other zipper. In there, after careful searching, he found some light makeup and something else. Something definitely worse than tampons or makeup – a collection of bags filled with a clear liquid. The room suddenly smelled of antiseptic and more syringes.

Johnathon stared for a moment, then shook his head, trembling. He dropped one of the bags back into the duffel, but the syringe...he couldn't put that down. It was like it was suddenly glued to his hand and there was no getting rid of it.

His thoughts were a jumbled mess in his head;  _Renfield drugs addict he's an addict drugs Renfield Lord no syringe._ Eventually, the thoughts were unbearable and he mumbled: “Shut up, Johnathon. Get a grip on yourself.”

But one properly-phrased thought was clear in his mind:  _Why would an addict go and leave his stash behind?_ Yes, there could be more bags, but it hardly seemed likely. Renfield's coat pockets were plenty big, but to keep something like that with him? No, it didn't make any sense.

Something was wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Later, At Night_ **

Renfield balled his hands into fists by his thighs, pulled up his hood, and turned away from the Count. Dracula regarded him over the tip of his nose, his own hands crossed over the handle of his cane.

“You are being irrational,” the vampire told him. “I am not holding you captive – you have any and all right to leave whenever you please. You are not my prisoner.”

Renfield scoffed quietly , rubbing at his inner elbow and using his foot to point at a syringe lying in front of the fireplace. Dracula sighed.

“Yes,” he said, “I am aware of your little problem.” He stepped forward and kicked the syringe out of sight, then put his hands on the arms of the chair and bent down so that he and the addict were eye-to-eye. _Good Lord, he smells disgusting._ “I understand it.”

Renfield just laughed at that and slipped the camera out of his pocket. He switched to that picture again, the picture of Renfield holding out his wrist with a look of pained fear on his face, but with no one else there to hold him that way.

“What do you know of the pain,” he demanded, “and the agonies that torment me?” He pulled back the makeshift bandages on his arm and Dracula saw the Y-shaped blemish spreading out from a single point – the scars on the Count's neck burned and began to rub against his brown leather choker.

Renfield pushed Dracula away and walked over to the window. He looked out, leaning against the cool glass and breathing in and out through his mouth.

“How can you _understand_ what haunts me?” he wondered, tone overwhelmed with mockery; he turned back to Dracula. _“You,_ a vampire! A monster with a dead heart!”

Dracula bowed his head without a word. As if on cue, the vampiresses slithered out of the woodwork, swaying their hips and winking at Renfield – the addict stared at them, armed with nothing but a digital camera.

“Army of shadows,” he muttered, pressing himself against the window. “Advancing...”

Dracula beckoned him forward, but Renfield was suddenly stronger and resisted the control. Dracula sighed and began to try harder.

\+ + +

She grabbed him and wrapped him in an embrace. She wanted him.

“Hush,” she was saying, “aren't you safe? Aren't you happy? None of those bad things can get you. I don't care that you're a freak, or that you have no purpose in life – I don't care about any of that. I love you.”

Then she pounded inside him, ripping him and killing off his brain cells and slowly causing him to die. But he didn't care. He needed her, and he especially needed her gorgeous violence. It left him feeling whole again, at least for a little while.

He wanted her to be with him forever. He was all she needed to have – just him. She could fuck him all she wanted, so long as it was only with him. He just wanted her to love him. That's all, just the love.

The shadow-women drew closer. “Come,” they said. “Look at us, run your hands all over us – don't you want us? We will be your wife.”

They weren't _her,_ though, and they could never be the same. Right then, something tugged on Renfield's mind and there was that strange voice telling him to “just touch them.”

He didn't want to, though. He was scared of them – they would hurt him, and there would be no happiness like what _she_ gave him. He didn't love them, and he didn't want to touch them or sleep with them or do any of that if he didn't love them and if it would make her mad.

She ran through him again, from his arm to his toes and into his heart. He closed his eyes and rolled his head, feeling her kiss him and hearing her tell him how much she loved him. _Renfield,_ the voice in his head was saying.

It was always sad when she left – she made him feel so high, all fuzzy inside, but then she had to go. She didn't want to leave, so she clung to him and left traces of herself in the syringe. He would caress it and miss her so much, feeling like his heart was breaking. He liked it when she visited, and she liked it, too; it upset her terribly to see him drown so much in suffering. She shallowed the waters and made things bearable for a bit.

But those women were there, cornering him. They hissed and smiled at him, trying to make him feel better, but they didn't. They just made the problem worse, like horns of the devil. They reminded him of everything.

The voice in his head was telling him to step forward. He tried to resist, but it hurt to do so. Across the room, Dracula motioned for Renfield to come to him. The addict stood with his legs pressed close together, hands down. He didn't want any of them, why couldn't they just go away?

Dracula made a particularly harsh gesture and Renfield was pulled forward. _Touch them, just for me,_ the mysterious voice murmured in a tone like velvet. He found himself obeying and reaching out. He shuffled through the monster-women, sliding his hands along their waists and groaning.

Renfield missed being like them – women with no problems. They had nothing to trouble them: they lived comfortably with a mysterious vampire count, and they never had concerns of which was the more preferable gender. They never had to lie awake at night, scared because of the cute brunette in their Science class and shunned for their long-rooted desire to wake up in a different body. They were so innocent.

But he also didn't want to be innocent like them. He was a freak, and he couldn't _not_ be like that – he had had no decision in being a man in a woman's body, hidden behind men's clothing with his boobs removed by a surgery paid for with a stolen college tuition. That was who he was, and he agonized for it. It hurt him.

But then _she_ came again and he was okay. Not perfect – nothing was perfect – but he was close enough for her approval.

Renfield pulled away from the vampiresses, feeling guilty. What would she think? What would _Lucy_ think? He was fraternizing with the enemy, those monsters. A scream rose in his throat, but he pushed it down; the desires were overwhelming, and he was becoming an animal in the guilt.

He shoved the monster-women away, but they grabbed him. He growled like a beast and pushed them away, running past them and toward the staircase. He'd be safe upstairs because there weren't any of those evil creatures waiting for him there.

Dracula swung his cane over his shoulder and was suddenly up on the next floor. Renfield barely noticed, hurrying up the staircase so he could get away from the women. They followed after him – the shadows still pressed for him. They wanted to help his fall downward. He panted, scrambling up onto the second story landing and looking back down at them. They had stopped five steps up and were trying to pull him down. However, they suddenly stopped pulling on his brain and slinked backwards.

Renfield looked behind him and saw Count Wallachia stepping forward. The vampire paused, but the point nevertheless had been made.

Renfield was surrounded by lust and intoxication that threatened to destroy him – would there be any way to make her innocent again after what he'd done? Would _he_ ever be innocent again?

The storm threatened to break through and ruin him. Renfield struggled, trying to keep away from the Count, but something was pulling him forward. He couldn't not step forward and collapse onto his knees. A strange calm came over him and he laid down.

Dracula bent over him, holding out his cane. Renfield could scarcely breathe, especially when the Count crouched down and reached calmly into the pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled out a syringe and took off the little lid. Then he put something on Renfield's arm and plunged the needle down into it.

There was a bright red light and a flash of happiness and Renfield cried out, jerking up into a sitting position. The world was wavy and confusing around him, but he was able to make out the Count's distinguished form stepping through a door and taking the needle with him.

The army of shadows was advancing on him, but Renfield found himself following after the vampire, reaching out for him. The world began to steady and focusing became easier. He stumbled through the door.

She was visiting him again. She had possessed him by them and was hurting him. He welcomed her return and begged for her to forgive him for touching the Devil. She fucked him harder, slapping him and biting him, but mostly she forgave him – he was thankful for it.

Dracula beckoned to him, taunting him with the syringe and a crooked grin. Thirst. Such thirst. Renfield was always thirsty, but right then it was like he had swallowed sand. Grunting, he lunged forward, but the Count stepped gingerly out of the way and Renfield went tumbling onto a bed missing the top blanket. Dust flew up and he coughed, rubbing his nose and groaning.

Dracula stepped over to him and Renfield sat up. However, no sooner had he regained his balance when he began to slip back, still looking up at the Count. He propped himself up on his elbows, sliding near the edge. He felt so weak and it was suddenly extremely difficult to sit up, but Dracula just reached out a hand to him and held it there; Renfield felt like he was being suspended.

“My friend,” the vampire began, his voice soft like honey, “tell me what this pain is. It seems to tear at your soul and gnaw at you from within.” He lifted his cane and held it out to Renfield. “What is this fire you claim to possess?”

Renfield reached out for the cane and managed to get ahold of it; Dracula held it there and bored his black eyes into the addict's soul. It was like he could see everything, even beneath the clothes. Did he know? If he did, what was he thinking? _What?_

“Don't call me your friend,” Renfield replied. “We don't have the same dreams. We have different things planned for us. And-And you're a vampire.”

Dracula pulled him forward harshly; Renfield's grip on the cane slipped, but Dracula climbed onto the bed and suspended his hands just barely over Renfield's body so the addict wouldn't fall back.

“What do you know of carrying the weight of pain forever?” Dracula wondered. Renfield wondered if it was just his imagination that something sad had flipped on behind the Count's eyes. “Of carrying the cross of love, but all in vain?”

Renfield jolted up into a sitting position and jabbed a finger into the vampire's chest. “You!” he cried. “You understand this malady of love...” He gestured to himself. “...that leaves me alone, begging for help but receiving it from neither a friend, aide or God! You understand!”

Dracula looked at the wall across the room. “I know we are similar,” he mused. Then he swallowed and, not making eye contact despite their closeness, continued: “I seek your assistance in a matter, Renfield.” He jerked his gaze down then, and he suddenly seemed very tired.

The addict looked at Dracula with new eyes. Oh, yes, he was a vampire, one could never forget that, but now... He seemed almost human, in a way. He reminded Renfield of the castle in the fog – hard stone on the outside, but with a warm fire and horrible nightmares waiting within. Dracula separated himself at the edge of that great void of whiteness, far from whomever he loved because they weren't there to return his affections.

Renfield separated himself, too – they were on the edge together. How strange: a drug addict and a vampire...

They would burn in their solitude the way all lovers do. Together, they were nailed in a box besides the doors to Hell – Dracula for his unholy curse and Renfield for his unholy mind. It was like that rectangular prism made of gnarled wood that Renfield had seen the night before out in the front walkway; there was hardly any room in it but for two people to fit uncomfortably. Dracula's sins became obvious in the close proximity and Renfield's sins became obvious as a result. But neither of them saw anything; their eyes were gouged with a diamond. They were blind, slowly discovering each other by other means.

Smiling, Renfield grabbed the Count's shoulder and his muscles grew weak. Something made him crane head back and his eyes droop shut. Dracula exhaled a sharp breath and removed the hand that had the syringe in it from it's place suspended over the addict's leg. He gave Renfield a shot and the man cried out, jerking his eyes open. When Dracula let go of him, he slipped over the edge of the bed and fell backwards; the sheets were dragged down and Renfield groaned.

She was happy to get another chance to visit.


	3. Chapter 3

**_May 5th, 2050_ **

The grandfather clock finished chiming midnight and Dracula looked down over the edge of the bed. Renfield made a cute noise of dissatisfaction and Dracula smirked, tapping at the heel of the other man's shoe with his cane.

“Renfield!” he barked. The addict looked up at him with sick and glassy eyes.

“Have you known love?” Dracula wondered, brushing a strand of his thick black hair out of his face. “And it's passions?”

Renfield panted quietly, admitting: “I have only dreamt about it.” He got a far-off look in his eyes and turned away, seeming to become even more flushed in the face.

“Of whom do you dream?” the Count asked. “Would you be ready to defy the fires of hell for their kiss?”

Renfield released a quiet laugh. “Yes.” Dracula smiled and Renfield said it again: “Yes!”

Dracula bent down and Renfield stared at him, gasping and eventually flopping back onto the floor.

“Will you go so far,” Dracula asked, “as to damn your soul for only one caress from them?”

Renfield moaned. “I would do anything for my Lucy!”

Something tapped on the Count's emotional core and he smirked, raising his gaze. “Anything?”

The addict was quiet a moment, then breathed in a nearly inaudible tone: _“Anything...”_

Dracula pulled himself up from the bed. “I seek a woman,” he began; “a woman that I have loved for a long time.” Renfield watched as the Count came around the bed, walking past him. “I can feel her presence.” Dracula paused by the window, not looking out so much as in and back. The screams and kisses still rang sharp in the air and Dracula whirled back towards Renfield. “I can feel her presence beyond space and time!” He took a few steps forward, his body shaking as he said: “I feel her!”

Dracula paused over Renfield's sprawled-out form and looked down at him. “I can feel her through you.”

Renfield shook his head. “But Lucy, she is my love!”

Dracula scoffed, shaking his head. “My poor friend,” he sighed. “She never belonged to you.” Here he paused. _“Never.”_

Renfield's face fell and he pulled the crook of his elbow over his face, gasping and moaning while he squirmed on the floor.

Point made, Dracula stepped away and sat down on the edge of the bed. Then he leaned forward with the support of his cane and stared down at the other man.

“I propose a pact, Renfield.” He paused, suddenly overwhelmed by the unknown. He quickly continued: “Bring me my Elhemina...and do not worry about your Lucy anymore.” He smiled. “I shall make her yours.”

Renfield gasped, his droopy eyes regaining life as he looked up at the Count in total disbelief.

“Yes!" he cried. "Yes!”

“Yours alone,” Dracula continued, “for all eternity!”

He reached down and grabbed the front of Renfield's shirt, pulling the other man up and setting him down on the bed. Then he grabbed Renfield's arm and injected the remaining contents of the syringe into his veins. Renfield cried out and grabbed the collar of Dracula's shirt, gripping tight and refusing to let go. The Count cringed and put his hands on Renfield's shoulder, pinning him down. Renfield lolled his head back and closed his eyes. His entire body jerked now and again and he kept reaching out for something that wasn't there.

Dracula pulled his hands away.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Later, Same Night_ **

Dracula groaned and shut the bedroom door behind him. Then he paused, running his fingers along his scalp and sighing again.

 _Of all of the people to help me,_ he thought as he dropped his hands, _it had to be a drug addict._ Were the circumstances different, Dracula would have found someone less disturbed to do the job, but he unfortunately had had no choice in the matter. He would just have to endure Renfield for the time being, then give him something of what he'd promised him and take Elhemina and go.

The vampiresses were downstairs, whispering to each other; they appeared to be concerned about something. When they saw him enter the room, they flocked around him and tugged on his arm.

“Master!” Maeva cried. “Oh, thank goodness we found you!”

“There's trouble,” Lurlene added.

Dracula waved his hands at them. “What is it?” he sighed, stepping away. They looked at each other, then tailed after him.

“Down in the village,” Lurlene began. “That Johnathon Harker man is trying to get villagers to accompany him up here.”

“He wants his photographer back,” Deli remarked.

Dracula just shook his head, sitting down in the chair by the fireplace. “You three know that the villagers shan't come – they know the stories. And if Mr. Harker comes up here by himself, then you have my complete permission to attack and seduce, and in whichever order you please.” He glanced back at them over his shoulder. “Anything else?”

“My lord,” Maeva began; Deli held up a hand and stepped forward. She sat on the arm of the chair and crossed her legs, looking Dracula straight in the eye.

“Master,” she said. “You respect our judgment, yes?”

“Mostly, my dear,” he replied. Deli smiled nervously, looking back at Maeva and Lurlene.

“Please respect it now.” Deli clasped her hands together and put them on her lap. After a pause, she continued: “The villagers have been telling that Harker man why they will not go here, and we think...” She gestured to herself and the others. “We think that he's been listening to the stories. Before we left to come warn you, he was on a phone with someone.”

“Who?” Dracula wondered. _Elhemina?_

Maeva piped up: “A Van Helsing person, my lord.”

Dracula sighed.

“Johnathon Harker wants Van Helsing to come to Wallachia right away,” Deli explained. “He said he was concerned about your Renfield, and that he thought you had something to do with the man's disappearance.”

“Hm.” Maybe Dracula hadn't thought things as thoroughly through as he'd thought he had - how embarrassing.

“Of course we can handle two people,” Lurlene assured him, pulling Maeva forward. They joined Deli at the Count's side. “But perhaps...perhaps you...well, you...and maybe us?...you should leave, in case there's more than that...?”

“We are all more than aware of how much you long to find Elhemina again,” Maeva remarked, grabbing her neck subconsciously; Deli swatted her hand down quickly and Maeva continued: “It would be such a horrible shame if all that work came down to you being destroyed or by having your slave take-”

“He is not my slave,” Dracula snarled. The vampiresses jumped back and grabbed each other, startled; Dracula stood up.

“However, I see your reasoning.” He walked past them, but at the foot of the staircase paused and looked back. They were clumped together a foot or so away from the chair, a sea of black with the exception of their pale skin and Lurlene's frosty blonde hair.

“You all understand, of course,” Dracula said, “that you must stay here.”

They gasped and scurried forward, throwing themselves at his feet. “Master!” “No!” “Why?”

He pulled away, walking up a few steps. “I need you three to dispose of Johnathon Harker and his Van Helsing and whomever else may come for Mr. Renfield. I cannot have anyone disrupting my plan, not when it is so close to bearing fruit.”

Deli, Maeva, and Lurlene looked at each other in quiet amazement; Dracula had never behaved so strangely before, and he _certainly_ had never left his wards to run away with a common drug addict.

He was acting so...so _odd_. Shrugging, they decided that it must be the close anticipation of Elhemina's return, but they all knew it was just an excuse.


	5. Chapter 5

**_May 12th, 2050_ **

Did Renfield have any say in how they would travel? Oh, no – he would have said to go by air, not to take a freaking _train_. But Dracula had said a train, and Dracula's word was law, evidently. “It's faster than a ship,” the Count reasoned, “and has travel compartments for privacy.”

Everyone had looked at them so strangely, especially when they explained that they wanted the old coffin they were taking with them to be put in their room, whether it left enough space for two or not. They must have thought they were a pair of lunatics escaped from an asylum.

 _What would Grandpa Bram say if he saw me now?_ Renfield had wondered quietly to himself. Then that had made him feel nauseated and he's shook his head, deciding not to think about it.

Overall, Renfield hated it. Dracula had confiscated all the syringes and heroin, and he only let Renfield get at them when the vampire was awake, at _night_ , when Renfield was tired and shaken and even more sick of the train. Riding it was an earsplitting experience, and Renfield almost wished that he was a vampire so could be dead half the time and the noise wouldn't bother him so much. But as it was, he had to be content with trying to make things better by thinking about Lucy.

It barely helped.

The joint schedule was disorienting, and Renfield took to sleeping in later and later each day because he stayed up at night to make sure the vampire wouldn't attack him in his sleep.

“But, Renfield, why would I attack you?” Dracula had purred. “I _need_ you.”

Renfield didn't trust him. The night Dracula came in at three with his black lips stained red set the addict off into hysterics. He couldn't breathe and wailed, running into the corridor to escape the vampire and his bloody mouth.

The train shook and he stumbled off-balance, crumbling onto the scratchy carpet floor. People in their cabins told him shut up, they were trying to sleep, don't make them call the steward.

The steward – where was the steward? Renfield jerked his head around, trembling, but no steward came. He was being a nightly nuisance, where was the steward? _Where was the damn bloody steward?_

Something cold grabbed his arm. He gasped, pulling the arm away and flopping forward onto his face. He coughed, head pounding, heartbeat blocking all other sounds.

“Renfield!” Dracula hissed, grabbing his arm again. “Renfield, you are disturbing the other passengers.”

“Where's the steward?” Renfield shrieked, struggling to pull away – but the Count was too strong. Dracula pulled him up off the floor with a single hand and kicked at his shins lightly.

“Do not make me carry you, Renfield.”

“Get away from me!” he cried. “Fucking monst-”

Dracula reached out and put a hand over Renfield's mouth. Renfield elbowed him in the ribs, but the Count didn't even wince; he released Renfield's arm and slid his hand around the addict's waist, dragging him back into their room. Renfield could barely breathe, Dracula had him so tight – the little man was stronger than he looked.

Kicking the door shut, Dracula put Renfield on his cot and finally released him. Renfield gasped, coughing and hugging his waist.

Dracula pulled out a box from somewhere Renfield didn't see. It was a small black box made of wood, and inside were the bags and needles – Renfield hiccuped, reaching out.

“Lie back,” Dracula said softly. Renfield obeyed and the Count took hold of his arm.

Renfield winced and Dracula slipped the magic box back into its hiding place. The world calmed, seeming to separate itself from Renfield; he breathed as the happiness drifted down on him, covering him and holding him tight.

Dracula looked down at him, then turned away. “I will be back in a moment.”

When he came back, his lips weren't so red. He looked safer. Renfield moaned, turning over onto his side and running his gaze along the corners of the spooky old coffin in the place of the pull-out bed across the cabin.

The Count crouched down besides Renfield and put a hand on his wrist. “Will you promise me something, Renfield?”

“What?” the addict croaked. He suddenly coughed and Dracula reached over for the shelf by the window, where the train staff had left bottled water and instant coffee. He opened a water bottle and handed it to Renfield, holding the man's hands steady while he drank. The water helped with Renfield's dry mouth.

The Count pulled his hands away. “If-” He corrected himself. _“When_ people disappear, I want you to promise me that you will not concern yourself with them.”

“Why?”

“You have no need to know why, I just want to hear you promise me not to worry.”

“You killed the steward,” Renfield said. Dracula lowered his gaze and heaved a sigh.

“I do not wish to lie to you, Renfield,” he said. “You do not seem to deserve it.” He paused. “Do you promise?”

“You killed the steward.”

“Yes,” Dracula admitted. “Yes. I killed the steward.” He stood up, span around as if trying to find something,  then turned back to Renfield and flopped his hands down to his side. He sat down on the floor and held a knee close to his chest. “I know you will not believe it, but I did not want to – I had to.”

Renfield honestly didn't know _what_ to believe anymore. Grandpa Bram had said that Count Dracula, the infamous vampire, was just a thing of myth and legend, like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. He wasn't real, none of the old man's terrifying vampires were.

And yet... There was Dracula, sitting on the floor of a 2050 bullet train, giving Renfield nightly hits of heroin and promising him Lucy for all eternity. Either this was happening or Renfield was in a melodramatic hallucination.

Renfield sighed and rolled over onto his back. He looked up at the cold metal ceiling shaking in the night as it chugged on its way to London. Sheets of metal had been welded together and they were stuck with each other, whether they liked it or not. It was forgive and forget all faults or fight to the death and beyond. He looked away.

“Okay,” he agreed. Dracula dropped his hands and widened his eyes at the addict, surprised.

“Okay,” Renfield repeated.

Renfield was tired. Really tired – he should sleep. Was it safe to sleep? There were horrors outside of his dreams now. It probably wasn't safe to sleep.

He did it, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**_May 18th, 2050_ **

Dracula had always had a bit of a pet peeve for messy living areas. Of course he understood that trying to keep a castle as big as his own in spotless condition was an impossible task, but he liked for the vampiresses to keep the areas he frequented most often in an orderly manner – it made Un-Death easier.

At least he had an excuse for not being able to keep his whole property clean. Renfield, on the other hand...

Dracula had only seen a little of the flat in the memories, but what he saw had seemed small and unbearable to live in. He _had_ seen the messes, of course, but it seemed as if they were even more atrocious in person. The smells were the worst: hard drugs and disgusting takeout food. Oh, it was extremely difficult for him to keep from gagging.

Dracula looked down and shook his head. “You did not even make the bed before leaving?”

Renfield didn't say anything, but it seemed as though the kick against the coffin was a bit unnecessary.

“If you please, Renfield,” Dracula said, stepping into the kitchen area, “do not kick my coffin.”

“Sorry,” Renfield muttered. He turned and walked past the Count. Their shoulders brushed together and Dracula swallowed, turning. Renfield opened the bathroom door, stepped inside, then slammed it shut behind him.

For a minute, Dracula considered going over and knocking, maybe asking what was the matter, but then he decided against it. After all, he was a dangerous, unwanted guest taking up valuable kitchen floorspace; he was also fairly certain that Renfield wanted some time to himself after that long, cramped train ride.

In fact, perhaps it would be best to give him that time - it would allow the Count to breathe some fresh air, at any rate. Dracula knocked on the bathroom door and Renfield opened it just enough to stick his head out.

“What do you want now?” he snapped. For some reason Dracula couldn't place, the man seemed even more on edge than he'd been before.

“I was just going to say that I am going out,” the Count explained. “And...” He hesitated. “I wish to apologize for any inconvenience that I am causing you with my presence.”

“It's fine,” Renfield replied, leaning against the doorframe. Dracula found himself involuntarily glancing down at Renfield's neck, but he quickly stopped and looked at the scar on his cheek instead.

It was a nasty-looking thing, like a werewolf had tried to rip his face off. Dracula began to wonder about that scar again – how long had Renfield had it? How had he gotten it in the first place?

Renfield's lips moved, but Dracula didn't hear anything. He jerked back to reality, blinking. “Forgive me, what was it you said?”

Renfield sighed exasperatedly. “I told you to have a fun night on the town.”

“Oh.” Dracula was strangely flattered by the remark.

“And that we can go get Mina tomorrow.”

 _Elhemina..._ Dracula blinked at him and smiled softly.

\+ + +

“Thank God he's gone,” Renfield muttered. He didn't even care much about what Dracula would most certainly be _doing,_ so long as it didn't involve Renfield or his flat.

Renfield rubbed his inner elbow and stepped back into the bathroom. Finally allowing himself to switch on the light, he crouched down in front of the sink and opened the cabinet again.

The contraband was hiding behind some spare camera parts, all snug in a plastic bag. Paranoid now, he leaned into the cabinet and reached for the bag. Then he grabbed it with a shaking hand and slid it out.

The tampons winked from behind their bright pink pastel packaging. He huffed and shoved the bag into his coat pocket, for once glad that he was running low. Standing up, he began to shove his makeup in there, too. He'd feel better knowing where everything that could give him away was.

“Only a couple days,” he breathed to himself. “Only a couple days and then he's gone and everything's okay again.”

He probably wouldn't have minded if Dracula found out so much if things suddenly hadn't gotten so... Renfield didn't even know, not really. Things were the same, but they also seemed different. For some reason, Renfield felt safer around the vampire, even though he knew full well that Dracula would label him supper if it suited him.

It just didn't suit him right then.

However, now Renfield didn't want the Count to find out what a freak he was. Thinking about the possibility set Renfield ill of ease - he released a breath and stood up.

The coffin rested quietly on the kitchen floor; he looked down at the old thing made of slips of wood and kept together by rusty nails. A faded-away cross could faintly be seen on the lid beneath the age and bloodstains. It was eerie, but in a beautiful and obsolete sort of way.

Dracula wasn't around to say otherwise: Renfield took a picture of the coffin. Then he put his sleeveless jacket on the bar and turned off the lights, lying down and staring at the ceiling. He was too tired to get into pajamas and wash his face or do any of that stuff.

The shadows crossed over themselves on the ceiling like plaid, every bit of blackness a different hue. They reminded Renfield of his dream and he imagined them rushing at him; his body began to sting.

He turned over, pulling his hands over his head. Overhead, the shadows jerked, swirling around in a dizzying whirlpool. They were waiting for him to fall asleep so he could be alone on that sinking ship in the sea of darkness. Then the beggars would surround him, but all they'd beg for was his life - they'd take it from him.

He didn't want them. They scared him more than Dracula did. In the dream, he was so helpless, and he felt every syringe break his skin and pinch nerves as if they were real. It had reached the point where he _knew_ he was dreaming and he _knew_ what was going to happen, but try as he might, he couldn't do anything except dread it.

He would slide down and the shadows would overwhelm him. It was inevitable. It was his fate.

Renfield sat up and hugged himself, quietly pleading for Lucy or even Dracula to come and keep him company; he couldn't bear to be alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a happy chapter.

**_May 19th, 2050_ **

Renfield drummed his fingers on his leg and the phone on the other end of the line just rang and rang and _rang._  While waiting, he began to look around.

Dracula had complained of the bright lights hurting his eyes, so all that was on was a powerful lamp on the bar. It was also cold because the Count had asked for the flat to be aired out. God, the man could not stop complaining.

Peeking up, Renfield saw those shadows on the ceiling again; he quickly looked back down.

Someone picked up the phone. “Johnathon Harker residence,” a gruff voice said.

Renfield took a deep breath. “I'd like to speak to Mina Murray.”

“Who's calling?” the voice wondered.

“Um.” Renfield glanced around for inspiration. He wished Dracula would wake up and get out of his coffin and help him, but the Count seemed to sleep in after a bloodbath. So Renfield was stuck fending for himself.

“A colleague,” he managed to get out.

The person wanted a name now. Would it be okay to give his real one? No – he was pretty sure that Dracula didn't want Renfield's presence in London known, so...

“Dr. Abra-Abra nham Van Helsing,” he blurted.

The voice scoffed. “Yeah right. Dr. Van Helsing packed up and went to Wallachia with his daughter all of a sudden, and – _just so you know_ – Miss Murray went with them.”

“Lucy?” Renfield asked before he could stop himself. His heart tightened in his throat. Lucy was _gone?_ And so was Mina?

“If you call this number again,” the person warned, “I'm going to call the police. _Good-bye.”_

“Wai-”

But they hung up on him.

Renfield's jaw hung agape; he pulled the cell phone away from his ear and stared at the harsh crack in the glass. _Call Ended,_  the screen was saying. _Call Ended._

There was a weight on his shoulder and Renfield turned his head to see Dracula next to him. Their cheeks were nearly brushing and Renfield suddenly couldn't breathe.

“Whom didst you call?” the Count wondered, squinting at the phone. Renfield stared at the side of his face, then subconsciously grabbed his own neck and looked down at his lap.

“Johnathon's place,” he mumbled. “Since Mina's his fiancee.”

Dracula tightened his grip on Renfield's shoulder and it only hurt because Renfield imagined how the vampire must have felt. However, Dracula acted completely indifferent to the news.

“Did you talk to my Elhemina?” he asked.

Renfield shrugged his shoulder away from Dracula and stood up. “No.” He put the cell phone back on the bar and suddenly just flopped forward onto the cool surface, resting his forehead on his arms.

Dracula put a hand on Renfield's lower back and bent his head down next to the addict's on the bar. “And why not?”

Renfield tensed. Waves crashed down on him and sank under his clothes. Bitter saltiness swarmed around in his mind, threatening to leak through his eyes and run down his face and ruin _everything._

God, he was a disappointment. Dracula would be so upset when he found out, and Renfield didn't want him to be upset – the Count had enough problems without this. And just when Renfield thought that he had found some sort of, like, _purpose_ in life or something...

“She wasn't there,” Renfield muttered. “She's out.”

Dracula patted him on the back. “Then go wait for her.” He pulled up from the bar and slid his hand away. “In fact, I shall go with you.”

“No, you don't understand,” Renfield said. “She...” He peaked over his arm and began to stare at the toaster. “Sh-She went to Wallachia with Van Helsing and _Lucy...”_

He couldn't say anymore.

He didn't want to look at Dracula, so he pulled his hands over his head and found himself lost in a small and enclosed work of darkness. He was alone, but he didn't feel safe like he usually did. In fact, he felt anything _but_ safe.

The Count was quiet, and through the crashing cacophony of ideas in Renfield's mind came the thought that maybe Dracula _wouldn't_ be mad. In fact, it was kind of funny, Mina having gone off to the country they'd fled from to get to her. Maybe Dracula would see the humorous light of it.

The Count's face was even more ashen. Renfield rested his elbows on the bar and looked at him, waiting for Dracula to start screaming, bite open his neck, laugh it off and embrace him: anything. Just do something besides stand there.

Dracula clasped his hands together. “My Elhemina is gone.”

Renfield nodded slowly.

“She went to Wallachia,” the Count mused; “the country we spent a week and a half on a train to abscond from.”

“Yeah,” Renfield whispered.

Dracula stared at him, then sucked in a breath and unclasped his hands, letting them swing into place at his sides. He didn't do anything after that, just stood there and stared at the kitchen tile.

Renfield, in turn, stared at the Count and drummed his fingers lightly on the bar. _Isn't he going to nail a turban to my forehead or something?_ He shuddered at the thought and straightened up, turning his body to face Dracula. He tried to think of something to say; he'd never liked silence, it was too ominous and unreadable.

Dracula started laughing. He threw back his head and his black hair slid out of his face, allowing Renfield to see every angle create pale shadows. His lips curled up and his teeth were white and shiny, the extended canines glittering in the harsh and dim artificial lighting. His eyes bled. The redness sank down his face, tainting the bone-white skin pink and eventually sliding down the line of his jaw and splattering onto the kitchen floor. After a moment, Dracula sank onto that floor, holding his face in his hands and clawing at it with his long nails.

Meanwhile, Renfield just chewed on an annoying hangnail. “Count Dracula-” he began.

Dracula leapt up, shoving something at Renfield and leaving claw marks on his arms; the addict stumbled back into the fridge and stared at him.

“Just go,” Dracula muttered angrily, turning away. He wiped his palm on his bloody face, then rubbed it on his pants.

“Count Drac-”

 _“Go!”_ He pulled his hands over himself and added quietly: “Before I hurt you...”

Renfield glanced down and saw that Dracula had given him the black box. He gasped and pulled up the lid – inside, the bags and needles reveled over his long-awaited appearance.

Dracula was screaming into Renfield's bedsheets now, tearing them apart in his childlike temper tantrum. Renfield supposed that he should have been concerned about the blood staining his blankets – and then them being torn to shreds and all – but he just stared into The Box, drifting forward. He reached over for the bathroom door and stepped inside; he'd have privacy there.

He crawled into the bathtub and pulled out a syringe. It caught the dim light perfectly, and Renfield wondered if he had ever seen anything so beautiful before. Not even Lucy was anything compared to _her._

She reached out for him, putting a hand on his and kissing his cheek. He smiled, finally ignoring Dracula's stifled screams and loading the syringe.

“Yes,” she whispered into his ear, voice hot and syrupy. _“Yes...”_

Renfield undid the ties on his right elbow, revealing the scar. She traced her fingers along it, brushing kisses on its length.

“It's beautiful,” she remarked. Her thigh pressed against his own and he could feel her heat transfer into him and reverberate inside his soul. He glanced over at her and she smiled.

Dracula sobbed and screamed like an animal on the other side of the door and Renfield understood. He knew what the vampire was feeling at that moment.

She ran her fingers through his hair, her long blonde locks tickling his cheek.

Nothing ever went right. The world was too sad, just too sad, especially now that there was a war and so many people were dying at their brothers' hands. It was no wonder there was no light at night – it was just shades of blue and black, misery and fear. It was just sadness characterized. A big bruise.

“Go on,” she encouraged, interrupting his thought processes. She trailed a finger on his wrist and he shuddered.

He obeyed.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Continued, Same Night_ ** **_  
_ **

Dracula coughed, pulling himself up onto his knees. He blinked the blood away and drew in a breath, pleading with himself to focus and get back his emotional control. After all, he was being irrational – Elhemina was not gone, she had merely gone back to Wallachia.

_To join her fiance._

The rims of his vision went red again and he wanted to kill something, but he pushed it away and brushed his hair out of his face. However, the strands just stuck to it, mingling with the blood and refusing to be pulled away.

The city water hadn't been sanctified, he found, and he could control its running speed so it wasn't impossible to take advantage of. He felt something he chose to label as relief and began to wash the blood off his face and neck. However, upon drying himself with the hand towel, he discovered that his clothes were also red and sticky, and so were the destroyed blankets on the pull-out bed.

“What a terrible guest I am,” he muttered. It felt good to have something else to worry about besides Elhemina, so he unzipped his dirty shirt and began to pull it off. That done, he knocked on the bathroom door.

“Ren... Renfield?” he asked, balling up the shirt and tossing it over his shoulder. Not receiving any sort of response from the other side of the door, Dracula knocked again. “Renfield?”

He thought he heard movement coming from the other side, but things were still deathly quiet. He reached for the doorknob and turned it.

“Renfield,” he began, “I beg pardon, but, well, you see-” He broke off.

Renfield was sprawled out in the bathtub, shaking and wheezing. His arm dangled over the edge of the tub and his fingers were wrapped around a syringe – the needle tapped against the side of the washing bin. His fingernails looked blue, almost, as did his lips. He groaned and clutched at his throat.

“Renfield!” Dracula rushed forward and bent down. He grabbed the man's wrist, wrenching the syringe away and clutching at the hot and clammy hand. “Renfield! Renfield, speak to me!”

Renfield's lips moved, but no words came out. Now that he paid attention, Dracula found that Renfield's pulse was slower than it ought to have been; the Count drew in a breath and let go of the man's hand, dropping the syringe so it clattered to the floor.

“I... I am going to get help,” Dracula assured him, standing up. “Stay calm, Renfield.”

Dracula put a hand to his mouth and turned. After a final glance back at Renfield, he stumbled into the other room, brushing his hair out of his face and whirling around like a madman. He began to twitch and shake.

He saw that cell phone thing Renfield had put down on the bar and grabbed it. But all he could do was simply stare at it, a helpless child watching as its parents slowly drowned.

“I have no idea how to work this contraption,” he muttered. There was a button, so he pressed it and a screen came up – there was a picture of a young blonde girl. Lucy, he assumed; the girl looked familiar enough. He narrowed his eyes at her, sighing exasperatedly, then shook his head and tried to focus on what was most important.

 _Enter password below._ A small collection of letters and numbers popped up and he stared at them.

“Password?” he asked. Dracula pulled on his hair, turning to the bathroom and then back to the phone. “How should I know this information? I am the one who... The one who kidnapped him...”

Behind the keypad, the blonde's infuriating smile radiated; he stared at her.

“Lucy!” he cried. “Yes?”

The phone did nothing and Dracula hissed, jabbing at the screen with an angry finger.

 _H,_ the phone now read.

Dracula blinked and brought the phone closer to his face. He glanced down at the rows of numbers and then the sole letter and an idea occurred to him.

There was a little button that looked like an arrow with an x inside. He touched it and the h disappeared.

“Lucy!” he cried again, jabbing at the letters. “Lucy! Please, dear Lord, let the password be that awful girl's name!”

'Twas. He heaved a sigh of relief and brushed his hair out of his eyes – but how did you call people on it? Dracula had never used a phone of any sort, but it seemed as though it was necessary to have some sort of wire or _something_ that this small little thing didn't have.

“Technology,” he muttered, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Like the rest of this sorry world, it never works for you when you need it the most.” For a moment, he forgot that Renfield needed him and was going to ask for the other man to help him figure the foreign device out. But then he remembered Renfield's current state and started to shake again, jabbing harder and faster at the phone screen and shaking the thing.

Whatever he did, a small little collection of squares popped up. Dracula skimmed the squares and suddenly saw a small little thing that read “phone”. He poked it and a number grid winked into reality.

“Another password?” he moaned. “But I thought everyone had these godforsaken devices! Why would there need to be a password for _this_ as well?”

He started to touch the screen randomly, not even trying to figure out what was he was doing. Renfield _needed_ help and all he had was Dracula, but the Count knew nothing about this strange piece of technology. Was Renfield going to die? Should Dracula do something more? What-

 _Call being sent,_ the phone read. _Please wait._

“But he does not have the time to wait!” Dracula shouted. Then he heard a slight ringing and pulled the phone up to his ear – yes, the ringing was coming from the phone...

There was a click and then a disembodied voice said: “Madison residence, Lisa speaking.”

“What in the name of-” Dracula pulled the phone away from his ear. “Who said that?”

“Hello? Who is this? Why are you talking so loudly?”

“Never mind,” Dracula decided. “Listen, you need to help him, he is ill and needs immediate assistance!”

“What? Who _is_ this?”

“Renfield needs help! His pulse is slow and he is having trouble breathing!”

The voice was concerned now. “What's your address? I'll call 999 and they can send an ambulance.”

“Address?” Dracula repeated. “But I have no idea as to what the address is! We are in London, in some dilapidated flat...out by this minuscule park with broken-down play equipment.”

“It sounds like the Robertson's Apartments,” the voice said. “Do you know the room number? The floor?”

“Ah...” Dracula thought back to coming up the stairs those two times and finding the door to Renfield's flat. “Six,” he said. That had been the faded gold number nailed to the musky wood door, right? “ 'Tis on the second...second floor.”

“Okay, stay calm, I'll call 999 and they'll get an ambulance to you.”

There was a click and Dracula just stared at the phone.

“Does that mean help is coming?” he wondered. The voice didn't reply and he put the phone back on the bar with a huff, collapsing onto a stool and pulling at his hair. He twitched.

“Stay alive, Renfield,” he muttered. “Stay alive for me, I beg you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**_Continued, Same Night_ **

They shoved him away, putting their hands on his bare chest and telling him to stay in the waiting room; they would talk to him afterwards, they said, when Renfield was stable.

He tried to sit in one of the ugly and uncomfortable purple chairs with the other panicking people, but too much came down on him if he sat. So he stood, arms crossed tightly over his chest. A small girl gawked at him and her mother said not to stare. “It's impolite,” the woman explained.

The scents were too strong and he gagged: contaminated blood was everywhere. When it was only one person with contaminated blood – when it was Renfield – the disgusting smell was bearable, but not in this great a quantity. He would have left, but Renfield needed him. The poor man was alone in this place and needed Dracula to be there later when he woke up.

 _If,_ Dracula thought.

Oh, Lord, what if Renfield died? Of course Dracula had planned to kill him in the end so the poor man could have an escape from his sufferings - and Lucy, he was going to kill her, too- but this was different. Somehow, this was different. Dracula couldn't say why, but it was most certainly different.

A horrible idea suddenly occurred to him - had Renfield done this to himself on purpose? Tried to kill himself by his own hand?

“Oh, God,” Dracula muttered, banging his fists against the flat white wall. Unable to breathe, he pressed himself against it, wishing it would swallow him up and end the agony. He had endured Love's cruel torture five centuries ago and still hurt for it – would Fate be so cruel as to do it again?

 _What?_ he thought. Then he sighed, shaking his head. He was obviously stressed because of the setback in getting his Elhemina back, and the stress was warping his brain and making him delusional about Renfield.

 _But Elhemina does not love you anymore_. That hurt Dracula deeply, the fact that the woman he had loved so ardently for the past five centuries hadn't waited the way he had. She had found another man. All that planning and scheming and working to get to her, and what had it led to? This: Dracula in the waiting room of a hospital, agonizing inside because she was gone and his...his _slave_ had overdosed on the drugs _he_ had given him.

“ 'Tis my fault,” he muttered. He turned around and looked up at the ceiling. Déjà vu now. He looked down at his feet and saw his bloodstained pants, then his brown leather boots. Somewhere, water dripped onto the dungeon floor.

He slid down onto the floor and and fell forward, bowing his forehead to a knee and drawing in a deep breath.

Why did he care, anyway? Why did he feel like he was dying again, bleeding to death in a cold, dark dungeon, all alone with no one there? He wasn't alone – people were gawking at him this time; he was surrounded by people with disgusting blood.

No, he wasn't alone.

And yet he was. Without Renfield, he felt so alone. He wanted the addict to be close to him so he could gag at his horrible smell and protect him and-

 _Protect him?_ Dracula shook his head. He'd been horrible, he could see, giving dear Renfield free drugs. And to think that it was all to _manipulate_ him so he'd agree to help the Count get _Elhemina_ back – what had it led to?

The crying and the screaming.

The box.

The bathtub.

And then the _overdose._

Dracula was to blame for all the horrible things that had happened to Renfield; he felt sick at the realization. And now the other man was in the hospital... The Count grabbed at his scalp and quietly wondered why he cared at all if Renfield didn't make it. It wasn't because then Elhemina would be gone again, because he suddenly found that he didn't care about her right then. It wasn't that.

He realized that it was because he just didn't want Renfield to die. He wanted the man to live and be happy. He wanted him to stay alive long enough to get his disgusting-smelling body close to the Count's again because he trusted him with his life.

Amazing. After everything, Renfield trusted the vampire.

For some reason, that made Dracula raise his head up and lean back against the wall. He swallowed, sighing and pulling in a leg. He held his knee against his chest and stared at the fluorescent lighting with a totally blank face, despite the fact that his eyes were screaming at the pain. His mind was also blank, save for one thought; the words of it burned against the back of his eyes.

_Is this how Elhemina felt?_


	10. Chapter 10

**_Later, Same Night_ **

A man in a minty green sack-suit came and summoned the Count. He asked questions about "the patient."

Dracula frowned at him. "You might at least speak of him as if he is a man instead of simply a thing," he hissed.

The mint man pursed his lips and sighed. "Standard procedure," he explained; "we're not allowed to gender our patients without knowing their legitimate genders and which pronouns they'd prefer."

"That seems mundane," Dracula muttered, quickly losing interest. He glanced around, wondering where Renfield could be.

"Been like that since 2045, sir." The mint man picked up his clipboard and made some notes. Then he carried on with the questions, asking things like what Renfield's full name was and if he had a drug history.

Dracula couldn't answer any of it; he didn't know. Suddenly, all he could think about doing was seeing Renfield again and apologizing for all that he'd done to him - the apology seemed to be choking him.

“Do you know if Mr. Renfield has a depression problem?”

What a quaint way of putting it: "depression problem."

Dracula shrugged. “He has a recurring nightmare,” he muttered. “In it, he is on a ship that sinks into a sea of shadows. There, lunatics and strumpets surround him with daggers clenched between their teeth and syringes in their hands. They attack him, and then...” Dracula shook his head, shuddering. Then he grabbed his wrist and put his hands together, eyes darting around.

“That could suggest a deep-rooted problem,” the man remarked, “one so deep that it's 'attacking' his subconscious. You might suggest that he look into some sort of therapy.”

“I doubt he would listen to me,” Dracula replied before he could hold back the words. When the mint person gave him a quizzical look, the Count cleared his throat awkwardly and started to rub his hands together.

“He is a bit irrational,” he explained, “and he shan't do anything he does not wish to... Perhaps the hospital could set something up for him? After all, if it will help...” He shrugged again and twitched.

The man shrugged in return and made a note on the margin of his paper. Then he asked a strange question, one Dracula couldn't see the point of but was certainly unnerved by: “What is your relationship with Mr. Renfield?”

Relationship? What did that mean? He had forced Renfield into his Wallachian castle, kept him prisoner there and provided free narcotics, and then took a train with him to London. What sort of relationship was that? The Count tensed, pushing away the dual image of Elhemina and Renfield and blinking at the mint man.

“I do not understand the question,” he muttered.

“Are you friends?” the mint man wondered. “Family?” He lowered his gaze to Dracula's bare chest, then glanced back up again. “Lovers?”

Dracula had to clench his teeth to keep from reacting to the implication. “I am a _friend,”_ he replied tersely, “visiting from out of the country – from Wallachia, if you want to get _specific.”_  

He drew in a lethal breath and brushed his hair out of his face.

“Look, I'm just asking the basic questions, mister...” The mint man drifted off. “I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

“I never told you my name,” Dracula muttered. “However, since you insist on knowing it, 'tis Count Wallachia Vlad.” Here he sighed. “Now, if you please, may I see him? I would like very much to see that he is all right.”

“Okay,” the mint man said. “The doctor told me that Mr. Renfield was stable enough for a brief visit from you. But only a _brief_ visit, now – Mr. Renfield needs his rest. If you want to see him longer, the visitation hours for non-family members are from ten to nine every day.”

“I cannot make those hours, though,” Dracula protested, dead heart sinking. “I...have a schedule!...”

“I'm sorry, Count Wallachia, but those are the rules in this country.” The mint man began to walk down the equally minty halls filled with more mint men and the sick people with their disgusting blood. “If you want to visit, you'll need to tweak your schedule.”

If only it was that easy.

\+ + +

Renfield was asleep. He was in a beige room, wearing a mint hospital gown with his head lolled off to the side. For a minute, Dracula didn't recognize him – he didn't have those things all over his arms and looked so _neat_ and _orderly._ He also seemed more flushed, with rosy lips and thinner eyebrows. He had definitely been cleaned up, there was no doubt about that. Dracula stared for a moment, wondering who this strangely androgynous person was; but then he saw all the scars and knew that it _had_ to be Renfield. He sat down in the plastic chair by the side of the bed, unable to pull his gaze away.

"Looks like he's asleep," the mint man whispered. "Do you want to come back tomorrow?"

Not looking away from Renfield, Dracula shook his head; the mint man sighed.

“Okay," he replied. "I'll leave you two alone for five minutes - but that's it, just five minutes.”

Dracula barely heard him. He couldn't breathe and clasped his hands together again, resting his chin on top of them.

“Renfield,” he mumbled. “Renfield, I...” He shook his head. There wasn't any point in saying anything, since it wasn't as if the other man could hear him.

The Count sighed, lowering his hands to his lap and slumping back in the chair. He rubbed at the dried blood on his pant leg, but it just got under his long, glasslike fingernails and he stopped, looking back at Renfield.

He wondered if the man was dreaming. Whenever he dreamt, Renfield started to moan and turn over in bed. Sometimes he'd grab at the sheets, and in the end he'd always sit up, gasping and unable to breathe. His eyes were the worst, revealing him as a total madman while he surveyed the surroundings for hidden demons. He always calmed down after two or so minutes and acted like nothing had happened, pulling out his cell phone or laptop computer and listening to some godawful “music” before drifting off a few hours later.

Renfield looked too peaceful to be dreaming. The poor, sick man must have been in a black nothing, like the death that was keeping Dracula away from him. Death for a vampire was just nothing – one minute, it closed its eyes for the day, and then it opened them like time had just been snapped away. There was nothing to dream about and nothing to remember because they were soulless daemons.

Renfield sighed in his sleep and turned his head. Dracula tensed; had Renfield been awake, he would have been staring right at the Count.

Unnerved by the unconscious judging, Dracula looked down and saw Renfield's hand. It lay limply by his side, next to his thigh. The mint people had taken off his rings, and, looking around, Dracula saw that they and the rest of Renfield's clothes were on a table across the room.

The Count reached over and put a hand lightly on top of Renfield's. “Please forgive me,” he whispered. “I did this to you.” His eyes rimmed red and he blinked it away, sighing. “I am terribly sorry that you have been enslaved by...by the personification of your nightmare..." He couldn't speak. _"Renfield,_ I...”

Renfield just lay there. His mouth was slightly open, just a small bit, like he wanted to say something but couldn't; he'd been silenced.

Dracula glanced off to the side, then stood up.

“I shall see you tomorrow night, Renfield.” He found that he had taken Renfield's hand with him. Dracula swallowed and placed the hand down on the owner's torso. He still couldn't let go. He didn't _want_ to let go.

But he had to.


End file.
